running shorts.

Tonight was the first night I broke down and put on a pair of running shorts since last August. Somewhere around mile 3, when my breath was short and Carl kept tripping over my feet, I was discouraged. That discouragement was only amplified by looking down and seeing my thighs.

Growing up, my family had always referred to my thighs as 'thunder thighs'--a name that was not always meant in a nice way but that I have come to accept as a part of me, perhaps until tonight. I am ill prepared for the half-marathon in five weeks and that in itself is my own fault. But tonight, looking down in frustration, my whole mood changed from light and optimistic to defeated. Looking around there were at least a dozen runners around me all with the perfect form. We're talking about the types of girls or guys you could see in loose fitting hoodies and sweatpants and know from the very stride of their walk that they were runners.   In this moment, the first thing I thought was that I am not a runner. No matter how many miles I log a week or how many Chia Seed Breakfasts, Salad Lunches and Quinoa Dinners I eat, I will never be a "runner". In this moment, even my calves, the ones I'm usually so proud of in dresses for showing the hard work that I put in on the road, just looked large and frumpy to me. A moment of weakness in my run, caused me to completely crumble.

I don't think this is unusual. I don't think that it's so crazy for even the most fit person to hate the size of their ass compared to the rest of their body or for the prettiest girl to worry about that one freckle or zit that is misplaced. What I do hate, is that when I could have just buckled down and admitted to myself that this was not my best run, I attacked myself. Worse yet, I attacked my running partner. I went from thinking that I wasn't a runner because I didn't have the ideal runners body to all of a sudden thinking that I was somewhere just above worthless. At the root of it, it was me comparing myself to the people around me. What is it, that we have to compare ourselves all the time? I was told daily by either my parents, sister or on the rare occasion that my brothers were feeling extra nice, that I was beautiful. I believe it, even if it's not in a traditional sense. But running is the one thing that should be about self. Tonight I just couldn't do it. I looked around and then I lost myself, my pace, and my drive. Why do we compare? Why does it matter if my pace is different than yours or if my thighs don't display the strength that they hold?

Tonight...my run was a mental failure.

Tomorrow...my mind will be stronger and my stride a little longer for suffering through this run.




P.S. If you haven't watched this yet, DO IT!! Why do we compare when we don't even see the real us to begin with?  Dove Beauty Sketches